


On the Death Of A Most Peculiar Woman

by SixofCrowsBabies



Category: Marina & the Diamonds
Genre: F/M, Gen, Meeting, dead!electra
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-23
Updated: 2017-10-23
Packaged: 2019-01-21 16:14:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 720
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12461322
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SixofCrowsBabies/pseuds/SixofCrowsBabies
Summary: A young journalist’s encounter with Electra Heart, and her death.





	On the Death Of A Most Peculiar Woman

**Author's Note:**

> I will probably do more writing involving Electra, but I had this idea first, so yeah, here we are. Please comment thoughts and enjoy!

Dear William, 

 A few days ago, I met a rather peculiar woman. 

I was going door to door, interviewing people, when I came to a house that was entirely pink. It looked straight out of a movie. 

I knocked on the door, and then I noticed that the doormat said EH. That was strange, but I figured I would ask about it later. 

She answered a few moments later. She was a woman with brown eyes and a voluptuous body and blonde hair that had a line of brown around it, so she was most likely a bottle blonde. She wore a pink dress. And she had a small black heart drawn under her left eye, which is rather strange. It seems to be drawn on with makeup. 

“Hello, Miss,” I said. 

“Hello,” she replies, smiling. 

“I’m a journalist, I was just going to ask you some questions,” I stated. “Would you be willing to answer some?” 

“Of course,” she says. I notice then that she has a English accent. “I just finished baking some cookies, would you like some?” 

I nod, and she leads me through the doorway and to the kitchen. Almost everything is pink or white or a pastel color. 

I sit down at the kitchen table, and she goes to the counter. A few minutes later, she comes to the table. She serves me cookies on a pink heart shaped plate, with a glass of milk on the side. She doesn’t have any for herself, just a small glass of water. 

“Alright, first question,” I said. “Were you born in the United States? And if not, where?” 

“No,” she answered. “I’m from Wales.” 

That explained the accent. 

“Second question,” I start. “What do you think of the current president?” 

“Well, he’s fine, I suppose,” she answered. 

I write that down. I ask a few more questions, all while eating the cookies and drinking the milk. She’s rather good at baking. 

“Alright, now I just need to get your name,” I said once we were done. 

“Electra Heart,” she said. 

I was surprised at her name. It explained the doormat, but it’s a highly unusual name. But she’s very serious about it. 

The truth was, I didn’t need her name, I just wanted to know it. 

“Alright, thank you,” I said, standing up. “Your answers will be published in the newspaper in two days’ time, anonymously.” 

She smiled again and led me out the door, then stood in the doorway and waved as I headed down the stairs and walked away. 

Three days later, one day after her answers were published in the paper, I saw a short story in a different newspaper. 

“ELECTRA HEART FOUND DEAD,” it read. 

And right underneath it was a picture of her. 

When I saw it, I simply sat in silence for a few minutes. The story said that she killed herself. 

She killed herself. The woman that I had met, that had given me cookies and milk, that answered my questions, that smiled so much, killed herself. 

And then for one of the first times in my life, I cried. I cried because she had taken her own life, and I had interacted with her right before. I could have made a difference. 

While the article said that she had a long string of lovers, which means that a lot of people were infatuated with her, I knew that what I felt was genuine. She was beautiful, generous, sincere. She lived in a pink house, for Pete’s sake, and had pink and pastel everything and ate off of heart shaped plates. She had a poodle named Marilyn. 

And she was an active member of the Lonely Hearts Club. She had been dumped, or was just uninterested in romance. 

But I felt something for this woman. I should have asked for her phone number, or given her mine, or even paid a little for the cookies and milk. Something to show that I was interested. 

But now she’s dead. She’s gone forever. She took her own life. 

Edit:It’s been several months since I wrote that, and I still haven’t felt any attraction to anyone. I kept that newspaper article, and I look at her picture every night. I don’t know if I’ll ever get over this. Over her. 

                                            Sincerely,

                                                   John

**Author's Note:**

> Fun fact, when I said killed herself, it kept autocorrecting to her sled. That would have made it a little less somber! Don’t forget to r&r!


End file.
